i have a seagull collection. much like my horse collection, my seagull collection is much bigger in my memory than in the actual bin-in-the-basement. when i opened what i thought was a big stable of horse figurines, i was shocked to find that my i-packed-it-in-1972-according-to-the-newspapers-in-the-box brain had overestimated the numbers…by a lot. my seagull collection, on the other hand, was packed a bit later – more like 1980 – and i had a (little bit) better memory about how many jonathan livingston seagulls i had collected through the years.
growing up on long island i loved seagulls. never too far from the beach, they were everywhere, but i spent great periods of time beach-sitting winter/spring/summer/fall watching them swoop and holler, screeching at their scavenged finds. richard bach created a whole seagull community metaphor and i fell right in.
i can still smell the wet sand, see the seaweed washed ashore on pebbles i collected even back then, feel the sun, even the winter sun, on my face. it all made me breathe differently. it all made me think and grow and dream.
“And all of those who see me, and all who believe in me Share in the freedom I feel when I fly. Come dance with the west wind and touch on the mountain tops, Sail o’er the canyons and up to the stars. And reach for the heavens and hope for the future, And all that we can be and not what we are”
were i to record this old reassuring hymn BE THOU MY VISION again, i would play it much, much slower. not the andante of the recording, the tempo of singing these verses. instead, i would realize that this kind of guidance doesn’t necessarily happen in my version of time but, instead, in the universe’s version of time. much, much slower.
it was 15 years ago, back in 2004, when i sat on a leather piano bench at yamaha artist services in nyc recording this piece and the others on the hymn albums. i was 45. things seem to move a lot faster at 45; expectations are impatient, conflict needs quick resolution rather than measured, thoughtful parsing.
now, 15 years later, i realize that slow is key. the right answers don’t come fast. much as we want quick, answers take their sweet time. we ask for guidance and wish for an immediate sticky note to float down in front of us. we, d and i, can tell you, if you don’t already know, that just doesn’t happen. post-it notes were created on earth and any sticky note floating down from the heavens, the vision we so desperately seek, is invisible. it shows itself, slowly, in how things begin to fit together, how it feels. slowly.
we were at the music store in town a couple days ago. kevin, the owner and one of our favorite people to hang and chat with, asked us what was new. we laughed, not ready to share all that has been happening, but described an ever-changing picture. he asked us if it felt like “all the pieces were falling into place easily.” although i wouldn’t choose any form of the word ‘easy’ to depict our sticky-notes-requested-scenario, we can also say we haven’t been force-fitting square pegs into round holes. “then it’s supposed to be,” he said. he told the loaded-with-sticky-notes story of buying the music store, fraught with challenges, but so meant to be. it’s not in our time. our expected tempo of things happening has, we can see, nothing to do with it.
so, lento. lento would be the way to play this. slowly. taking sweet time. and rubato. freely. for in the gift of vision is sweet freedom: the ability to take a breath, recognize, regardless of our age, how little we really know, sit in purple adirondack chairs, go beyond the jetty and count on a benevolent universe.
“…it overwhelms me what i feel…this heart outside of mine….is walking in another person, in another life…” (lyrics)
there is something mysterious and knock-you-to-your-knees-powerful about feeling like you have a heart walking in another person. i know – now – how my sweet momma felt. each time she asked me to let her know i arrived safely while driving cross-country, each time i shared good news, each time she checked in on me after any sort of gritty life-drama, each time she sent cards with messages of encouragement or congratulations, each time i saw her try not to weep upon my leaving. i get it. she could feel her heart – out there – moving around in the world, just outside her sight view.
motherhood is not for wimps. it is, by far, the most gratifyingly-toughest-most-important job i will ever know. i have had to grow two extra hearts and then let them go, wandering and exploring this good earth, finding themselves and their happiness. i can feel it, these hearts – out there. but, with the exception of the time i can actually put my arms around My Girl or My Boy, it’s all just outside my sight view. overwhelming. yes.
and, although i have told it before, here is the story – again:
we walked The Girl to kindergarten. it was spring and sunny and warm. dandelions were everywhere. on the way home, The Boy dropped my hand to toddler-zigzag around a yard where dandelions > grass by far (kind of like ours.) he bent down and picked yellow flower upon yellow flower. until he came running back to me. he held up his sweaty-dirty-little-boy fist, full of bright yellow and green dandelions and said, “woses for momma.”
with the sun not yet up over the farmlands, the hot air balloon lifted. we slowly sailed over fields and stands of trees, watching the world wake up. as the sun rose over the horizon, we could hear what was going on below us. we weren’t that high up and any conversation in backyards and barns, on patios and decks or driveways was easy to hear. we weren’t intentionally eavesdropping; you just can’t help but hear clearly up there in the wind. it’s an amazing vantage point floating low in the sky, sharing the sunrise with the earth, an endless horizon. a little wary, i had asked the pilot if he had any anti-motion apothecary suggestions. he responded by telling me that none are needed, that you are “part of the wind.” we were. we are. part of the wind.
when we go antiquing and wander around in vast collections of other people’s lives, we pass by paintings on the walls and in stacks against cabinets, displayed beautifully and piled haphazardly. we stand in front of bins full of records and 45’s, stacks of CDs not even alphabetized, the vinyl and polycarbonate/aluminum blend all beckoning us to sort through and remember songs or moments in time. and we, artists of the canvas and of song, draw in our breath. it’s an amazing vantage point floating here in time, sharing this day with the earth, contemplating.
and we wonder if this is where all of our paintings and cds will end up one day…in an antique shop where browsers will pass by, exclaiming, “wow! look at all those paintings!” or “wow! look at all those cds!” we wonder if they will stop, page through, recognize a track or two, an image or two, or if they will be curious or spellbound and buy something to bring home. perhaps we will remain part of the stacks, the bins, ever-growing, the horizon endless.
either way, we are part of the wind.
download BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL on iTUNES or CDBaby
“from a visual place…adrift on long island sound late-night. from an emotional place…living in the gray.” (liner notes – blueprint for my soul, 1996)
the gray. it sounds dismal. but gray is not devoid of color. if you mix the three primary colors together – red, yellow and blue – and then add white, you will hone the gray of your choosing. if you have ever stood in front of color samples at home depot or menards you know that gray, itself, spans a full spectrum. so many choices. all gray. the only thing really pertinent about gray is that it isn’t just black and white. it swirls together every color of experience, every emotion, every laugh and every tear. it is not defined by distinct edges, but blurs one moment into the next.
the word ‘adrift’ sounds inactive. but, in this vast world, aren’t we pretty much adrift? we believe we are proactive; we act on things we believe in. and yet. we bounce off turbulent waves threatening to destroy us; we ride others into the beach. we sit in calm waters and we try to navigate the waters that toss us wildly. we make decisions in moments of incomplete information; we have successes, we have regrets. we are adrift in the gray.
in moments of sunshine on trails in the woods i feel less adrift and more centered, more clear. it’s the rest of the moments when i try my best to ‘go with the flow’. we are surrounded by unknowns, caught in many an eddy. we are uncertain, but we are all capable. we are held in glimmering gossamer silks of grace by a universe that is benevolent. adrift.
the woods along the trails by the des plaines river have been burned. the fires, intentionally lit to restore native life to the forest floor, to burn out the invasive species that have harmed the vegetation. already, post-burn, we can see green amid the blackened mulch. already, there is newness of life. the toxic has been deliberately remediated and goodness will prevail. it will take some time, but it will eventually tip the balance and the woods will be better for it.
this is simple. it is all around us. the necessity for an intentional burn. we wake up to a new day, a new sun, a new chance. in this time of re-birth and restoration, we are amazingly gifted. with grace.
i cannot help but think of the world despairingly coming together to lift up notre dame as it was on fire. not at all intentional, not necessary, absolutely devastating to that beautiful and majestic cathedral, yet somehow it brings together a global community of people who recognize its importance, its value, its history, its soul. and it will prevail. in a divisive world, grace.
less is often more. it is in that spirit i recorded this track of amazing grace.
download ALWAYS WITH US VOLUME 2 on iTUNES or CDBaby
the two of you: two reasons why i breathe ~ my children (cd liner notes)
this will never change. most of the things i gather around me are things that make me think of them, feel them near. it’s as simple as framed photographs or collages or a peace keychain or lanyards that say ‘colorado’ and ‘boston’. it’s a screenshot of a text message i want to remember. it’s a note jotted on my calendar about something My Girl or My Boy said to me or a date that is important to them i want to remember. it’s notes they wrote as children held by magnets to the refrigerator or in small frames bedside. it’s laughter saved in a video. it’s moments of tears driving away from their homes. it’s a rock saved on a hike in the high desert canyonlands with The Girl; it’s The Boy’s childhood favorite ny taxi pencil on my piano. nothing is huge. everything is huge.
most of my also-mom-friends will agree that, outside of spending time together, the one thing certain to lift them up on any given day is a reaching-out-to-them by a grown-up child. it’s the moment ANYthing else stops. it’s the silently-agreed-upon, strictly-held-to and always-welcome interruption in the middle of visiting others, working, hiking, cooking, sleeping. both The Girl and The Boy knew – and know – that they can call or text at any time of day or night and i will be there; i will answer. ‘always there’ is a fierce inner motherhood promise designed to both ground and frustrate children, whatever their ages. it’s a guiding principle, a mom-creed. it’s absolute. it’s truth.
from the moment they were born everything changed. and, from that moment on, one thing didn’t. the two of you ~ two reasons why i breathe ~ my children. ❤️
one of the gifts i received for my 60th birthday this week – an envelope with seed packets of lettuces in it, dirt and manure. on the outside of the envelope of seeds was this:
“to plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.” (audrey hepburn)
early november. moab, utah. i was standing on the precipice of a vast and deep canyon and was filled with wonder. My Girl encouraged me a bit further out, a bit higher. she was right to push me. the gorge inches away, unforgiving, i didn’t lose my breath until the very edge. but i breathed in so much more. i felt like ME. me, in my old hiking boots and ripped jeans, a couple black layered shirts and a vest, fingerless gloves linda made. ME. the air of the high desert mountains seemed to fill me and, as i stood there, pondering my very existence in this place, i felt renewed. a meeting ground, i could feel all the yesterdays that brought me there and the tomorrows that stretched forward. it is a spiritual place. she was right and i tied my heart to it just as she had predicted. the sun and i were each merely a tiny piece of the enormity. we watched day end and shadows paint the canyon walls until dark filled the void. we laughed uncontrollably. i cried. no matter what, the next day – tomorrow – would come to that place and sun would spackle the walls until it would -again- be light.
THIS will be the next album cover. in some tomorrow time. i wish to bring burning sun and immense canyons into that project. mountains and Spirit and old boots. a bow to yesterday and to tomorrow and the place inbetween. the air in me. i don’t know when or exactly how. i just know i need to somehow make the chance. i need to stand on the very edge, once again. it matters not whether i am relevant in these times. it just matters that i plant it. lettuce, here i come.
yesterday david wrote these words about his palette. as i read his words, i realized he was conveying many of my own sentiments. with his permission, i have only slightly modified his words this morning to express my own artist palette – my piano. the re-posting of this, and even using the same verbiage, reminds me of the intertwining of all soulful expression. bear with me as i experiment, my words in red, an exploration of two artistic planes running parallel.
true confessions: i never rarely clean my palette the music stand on top of my piano. i like the messy build up of color. color is found in many forms but mostly notebooks and pa-pads, scraps of paper, snippets of tracks recorded on an iriver or an iphone. i like the chunky texture pile. it serves as a gunky history of my work, a genealogy of paintings compositions past and future. and then, over time, it becomes a tactile work of art in its own right. unfettered by any of the mental gymnastics or over-ponderous considerations that plague my “real” work, it is the closest to child-mind that i will achieve. it is accidental. it is free. it is idea, melodic gesture, poetry waiting for notes, phrase waiting for the rest of the lyrics. ready. waiting. free.
this might be a stretch but it is, for me, nevertheless true. i love my palette because it is the place of alchemy in my artist process. it is the true liminal space. long before the space spanning the route taken from introduction to coda. i begin with pure color. i begin with the rest, silence inbetween the notes, the place for breath so you can hear the vibrations of sound. i smash the pure color together with another color and transform it into a third color, the hue i intend. note upon note i build a melody, smashing note upon note i build a small unaccompanied orchestra of harmony, the hue i intend. on a palette, color becomes intention. sound becomes intention. and then, once transformed, with a brush or knife i lift the color-intention from my palette and in an action that is often more responsive than creative, i place it onto a canvas. i play, i listen, i play again. i lift it from the keys of my palette and place it onto the canvas of paper, attempting to capture the fleeting moment it has created and etch it into a piece of music that can be repeated, played again. it transforms yet again relative to all the color it touches. it transforms yet again relative to the air in the room, the echo of an intention, the listening ear it touches. an image emerges. more color is called for. it emerges, this composition of music, and more color is called for.
and, somewhere in this call and response of color, i become like the palette. the pass-through of alchemy, the door that color passes through en route to something beautiful. and somewhere in this call and response of color, i become like the palette. the pass-through of alchemy, the door that color passes through en route to something beautiful. this! can there be a more pure statement of artistry? and, in the process, perhaps i, too, in my messy build up of life/color, grow closer to that child mind. unfettered. accidentally interesting. free. and in the process, perhaps i, too, in my messy build up of life/color, grow closer to that child mind. unfettered. accidentally interesting. free. the rest between the notes. the breath of music on the air.
“You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough” ~ William Blake i paint. i write. i compose. i don’t know what is enough until i know what is more than enough. truth.
this. this is what this song is about.
reverse threading 